


Without them, I am not whole...

by ReedusAcklesFlanery



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Bonding, Gen, Hurt Castiel, Tortured Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7044742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReedusAcklesFlanery/pseuds/ReedusAcklesFlanery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is captured and tortured by demons in search of Heavens secrets. What is the worst possible thing that they can inflict on a Holy Entity? It would take some thought. But apparently, as unfortunate as the situation could get, as Castiel returns to consciousness, he realizes that demons have a creative side. Somewhat 'AU'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. -Chapter 1-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: This was a prompt I found on Tumblr. I couldn't help but relate it with Castiel (most of what I see and/or hear I easily relate to Supernatural, anyway), and thus, this little guy was born! I will add the actually prompt at the end of this, because I have no idea if it would give too much away or not.
> 
> This is my first Supernatural fanfic, and although I know these characters like my own children, I am not sure how well I'll actually portray our precious Angel in words. So we'll see!
> 
> This is AU, but I think this could be placed somewhere between season 5 and season 8. No Spoiler warnings for this chapter.

 

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own any of these beautiful people, nor do I own the characters or SUPERNATURAL itself. All rights go to The CW, Eric Kripke, and everyone else involved._

* * *

 

A bone-deep, throbbing pain... It registered in the back of Castiel's mind, in a place he didn't want to listen to, a part of him that was weak to the sensations that burned like fire throughout his entire being.

By chains, his vessel dangled pathetically by his arms. Wrists spread to either side in a way that reminded the angel, tragically, of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. He realized now, even more so, what an unfortunate death that had been. And all those years ago Castiel saw it happen, but was not allowed to lift a finger to stop it — to save the Son of their beloved Father.

And now, two millennium later and with no holy orders besides his own to follow, Castiel could not even lift a finger to save _himself_.

The chains hoisting his body above the ground, at the metal cuffs around his wrists, were sigils. _Angel traps_. Carved precisely and effectively into the metal to delude his powers. His grace had sunken into the pits of what felt like his stomach, trying to escape and somehow dodge the undetectable attacks the sigils made against his angelic power.

He coughed weakly into the silent, dark room, the action sending his vessel spiraling into nausea. A feeling an angel usually does not feel. For the first time since his captors—a few wayward demons—had left him to linger in his own torment, Castiel peeled his eyes open, and with effort looked down upon his vessel, checking the damage.

He was filthy and somewhat shirtless, the clothing torn and frayed, barely concealing his skin anymore. Beneath the strips of his once white shirt, he saw bruises, littering his torso—and he could only wonder what his face looked like. But none of that bothered Castiel. It was the dark, thick red substance trailing down from his abdomen that had him concerned.

It did not "hurt", really—angels did not feel much from the damage done to their vessels. But the wound did leave a bit of discomfort in its wake, and Castiel could not help but ponder if a wound like that could bleed him out. And in the condition he was now, his vessel unable to heal itself as long as he remained cuffed, it probably might.

While his bodily damage seemed somewhat minimal, the areas that were the cause of anything painful was beneath the skin.

It was imprinted on Castiel's mind, the cruel sneer of one of the demons as it had jabbed a needle through his forearm and straight into a vein. He had stared directly into its black, void eyes with the unwavering attributes that was unafraid, that basically said _do your worst_ — something he'd picked up from the Winchester's upon years of fighting side-by-side. He came across as a true dignified angel; still fairly powerful and strong.

As compared to what his condition was in the next few moments.

He felt the pressure as the evil creature squeezed the plunger and injected him. He didn't know what it was. Not until, well... until it _started_. And for the first time in the handful of hours he's been in here, his voice carried on throughout the small room in gut-wrenching screams.

Demon Blood was pumped into his bloodstream, and it channeled no easier than lava through his veins. The corruption of it by Lucifer himself burned against everything that made Angels holy, attacking every nerve ending as it moved throughout his body, and more than just his vessel began to quiver and convulse, his entire being erupting into its own entity of pain.

The demons wanted information, and... he hated to think how close they were to breaking him in that moment.

He was helpless to stop it, and it continued relentlessly for what felt like years, but was probably no longer than mere minutes. Tearing him apart from the inside.

Then there was an even stronger source that broke through, and his pitiful wails cut off in a choked hiccup as something snapped behind him, echoing like the breaking of a bone. It had been a sharp force of immense misery somehow worse than the current, mouth hanging open in a silent gasp. He heard and... God... _felt_ it a second time, the snap of some sort of limb. Then finally, relief came. Pulling him into unconscious in one big wave. And Praise his father — he felt _nothing_.

Until he woke up. Which was where he was left with now.

His achy body winced at the far-to-fresh memory. He wished he could forget. But the sensations beneath his skin now were only after-affects. Slight tremors of the Demon Blood stinging like a small flame as compared to the previous, but almost literal "lava in the veins". However, even that was slowly being deluded by the fresh blood his vessels heart pumped and did its best to produce. Not to mention the wound in his gut, slowly trickling out not only the Demon Blood, but blood in general unto the concrete floor.

Still, the worst of the pain was at his back, where he had felt the cracking of one or more of his bones. It ached, _throbbed_ , on the angel himself though and not just the vessel. Usually, what humans would label as physically painful instead sent goosebumps up his spine. But this was directly inflicting on Castiel's being, his soul and heavenly form. And recalling the loud bone shattering snaps he had heard before blacking out, it must not be good...

He was not expecting to be able to see anything, but with a strange hollow feeling in his stomach, he tried. Lifting his chin off his chest, turning his head and, with some difficulty, tipping it back to see over his shoulder. Icy blue eyes took a moment to focus, adjusting to the darkness. But when his vision steadied, brows frowning above his eyes, his breath came unannounced in a half-audible sob.

The sight of his wings, once a beautiful mass of feathers and glory that would stand at attention behind his entity, looking like they contained worldly strength, were now a dangle of broken limbs and dripping a dark red.

They weren't even wings anymore, but rather a skeleton.

Each wing hung from the middle joints; broken. Blankets of feathers, once making soft, thick layers made out of dozens, were gone. Missing. Stripped, besides a single, remaining one that hung desperately to the muscle and bone of his left wing. Barely attached; blood covering and tarnishing the remaining feather, darkening the glow it used to carry.

Usually, they were not manifested — to be seen nor touched. But possibly, in his weakened state, and the corruption of the Demon Blood still flooding inside him, maybe... maybe his vessel was not containing his true form anymore. Not well enough.

He could not tear his eyes away. He refused to breathe — his chest tight with something he's never experienced before on such a high scale. This is what true sorrow felt like?

His head dropped and lolled in what felt like all his energy escaping him. He gasped in a shaky inhale, something so human-like coming from his core in that moment, pulling and yanking and tearing at his insides so much that it burned his lungs.

The only prized asset of an angel's heavenly form were their wings. They kept pride in owning them, it made angels who they were. And seeing his now, it was like losing a part of his soul.

And this... this was the worst pain Castiel could feel. And in that moment, the great fallen angel, warrior of Heaven, cried. Broke down for the only things he had with him that the demons could take away. And what remained of them now was a single, charred feather...

Truly, he was an angel fallen from grace.

They had nothing more to take from him now. Nothing.

...

Except for that one eldest sibling.

_"Cas!"_

And that one younger.

_"Hey, hey, buddy. Hold on..."_

A large hand was cupping his neck, squeezing gently, and he could not recall if it was his imagination or not.

But those humans, that pair of brothers. The Winchester's...

_"It's okay."_

...his _family_. Nobody, absolutely _nobody_ will take them from Castiel. Not the same way they were able to with his wings... He won't allow that; he could not bare it. He will not feel that kind of pain.

_"We gotcha, Cas..."_

Not for as long as he lives...

"We've got you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The prompt was: "And all that I had left of my wings was a single, solitary feather." I can see something along these lines happening, Crowley going all evil and trying to get information about heaven, yada-yada. I don't know!  
> Tell me what you liked / disliked about this piece or this writing style - so I can improve!
> 
> Also: Here is the description on "Angel Traps" that I used in this story, in case any of you don't know what it is. Type it in a search engine: www . supernatural . wikia . com / wiki / Angel_Trap


	2. -Chapter 2-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler warnings for season 4.
> 
> Feel free to criticize and give pointers, as I am always searching to better my writing skills. Also, as I am my own editor, please let me know if you spot any mistakes. Comments feed the writer's soul!
> 
> PS: This takes place right before the end of first chapter, before Sam and Dean find Castiel.

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own any of these beautiful people, nor do I own the characters or SUPERNATURAL itself. All rights go to The CW, Eric Kripke, and everyone else involved._

* * *

 

An abandoned cabin, fifteen minutes from any sort of town in one of North Dakota's forests.

Made out of stacked logs and filler, the termite ridden and mold infested building barely remained standing beneath its caved roof. Underneath the cabin, screams echoed out from the basement. Two lives expired within its depths, a yellowy-orange glow gleaming as their lives came to an end and the bodies were discarded to join the rest of demons that littered the concrete floor.

One last demon now snarled, wearing the skin of a once well-groomed businessman, whereas blood now speckled and tainted the posh black and white layers of its clothing. It bared rows of white teeth at the two hunters advancing on it, who had just regained their barrings after killing its brethren.

To the left of the hunters was the staircase, the only way to the outside world. The demon was being backed into the corner of the basement, and in a rash, split-second decision it tried to scramble for the stairs.

The tallest hunter took two long strides and got his arms around the demon in the matter of seconds. It struck out any way it could, gaining grunts and a satisfying yelp from the human that it thought it might escape. But a sharp edge prodded its chest all too suddenly, and it stilled.

Standing inches from the demons face, Dean Winchester glared to that of daggers. "You move, and you'll be joining your buddies down there." He dug the tip of Ruby's knife deep between its breastbone to amplify his warning.

Behind the demon, Dean watched Sam cinch his arms around the demon taught again, sniffing back the blood drizzling from his nose from where the demon had swung its head into his little brother's face. The sight of the red substance made his blood boil hotter, despite Sam's brief but assuring eye contact.

"You hurt my brother," he stated evenly, strangely calm as he turned his focus back on the demon. However, one could not mistake the anger laced within each spoken word. "I should peel off your _face_ for that. Who knows, maybe I still might."

Reaching up and pulling at a handful of short, brown hair, he yanked the demon's head back to stare straight into its eerie eyes that were green like his own. "Where is he?"

The demon flared its teeth in defiance, but otherwise did not answer. A vow of silence, which Dean did not tolerate.

" _Where's the angel_?" He seethed louder, more impatient.

Its features became smug then, lips curling even further if it was possible and eyes flicking to a deep black. "Always with the empty threats, _Winchester_."

"Oh, I wouldn't call 'em _empty_." He gouged the point of his demon knife into its chest, drawing blood through the white material of its shirt. Maybe that would provide more of an intensive. "Now answer me, smart ass."

"Go on and kill me," the hell-spawn said through gritted teeth. "You'd do it whether I tell you or not."

Dean narrowed his eyes. The demon was not wrong, but the fact that it was basically _pushing_ for death had put Dean's thoughts off.

Before he could open his mouth again, he saw the slight shift in the demon's black eyes. Dean knew what was going to happen—he's been through this many times throughout his life-long years of hunting.

The demon suddenly threw his head back, a scream bubbling from its throat followed by a dark smoke. Reacting quickly before the demon could leave the vessel, Dean jerked his wrist forward, embedding his knife into the body all the way to the hilt. The body went limp, but despite his quick reaction and efforts, there came no telltale flickering of yellow light from the stab—the sign of a dying demon.

Both brother's watched with a sinking gut as the ashy smoke flew up through the staircase, unharmed, the hell-spawn leaving the basement to the outside world. Probably going to inform its leader...

The longer they stand there, the more of a chance they have of a second wave of Hell's personal bitches.

Dean jerked the knife from the body with more force than was necessary, irritation flooding his entire being. Whereas Sam dropped the body to the floor, which was now nothing more than an empty vessel.

Speaking of Sam...

When Dean turned his eyes to his brother, Sam had his hand under his nose. "You okay?"

Sam didn't even seem to take time to consider it, answering, "Yeah. I'm good." Gingerly scrubbing away the already drying blood, he shrugged. "Not broken, so..."

Dean nodded. Guess that's all he could really ask for at this point. Wiping the knife on his jeans to clean off the residue from its recent use, he gestured across the small basement with the clean blade. "Go check that room. I've got this one."

Lowering his hand, Sam gave a nod after having a look over his shoulder. Turning and making his trek over the array of bodies, he called over his shoulder, "Be careful, there could be more."

Seeing the floor as it was now, with at least seven bodies littering it, Dean really doubted it. They really made a massacre out of this place.

Dean looked to his right, to a metal door painted with blood in some form of sigils. Sam would know better than he would about these types of things, but if he had to guess, he'd say it was Angel warding. That assessment made his pulse rise and brought him to stand before the door without another thought. He gripped the handle, surprised to find himself slightly hesitating, but slowly he pushed it open. Metal squealing on metal.

The first thing he noticed, seeping out from the small crack that only widened as he pushed it, was the smell.

The stench, once trapped in the confinements of four walls, was like a fire searching for oxygen. It rushed out at him with fury, assaulting his senses in one big wave of vile nausea, and he brought the back of his hand under his nose to escape the sickening smell of coppery blood. It was so aromatic, and that wasn't even the worst of it. Because then, there was a smell Dean knew anywhere. Something Hell was famous for.

Stinging the cavities of his nostrils was the distinguished tinge of burnt flesh.

In his trip down to The Pit, he had endured, seen, breathed, and partaken—with much regret—in the activities of Hell. It was the darkest days of Dean's life, and he remembered every little detail of his forty years; like a curse he cannot undo or erase.

He knows what Hell is and every meaning of the word.

In one way or another, this felt no different from what he remembered. He realized that the moment the door was completely agape, light creeping in from the outside and piercing through the dark room.

No, there was hardly a difference between the settings of Hell and what's before him right now. The smell, the feeling, the fear... The only variance was that it wasn't him stuck in the middle of it, hanging in the middle of the darkness, mutilated and demeaned and bloody and broken. No. It was far worse.

And like a curse, imprinted forever on his brain, Dean would never forget.

"Cas!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No spoiler warnings for this chapter.
> 
> Remember: Feel free to criticize and give pointers, as I am always searching to better my writing skills. Also, as I am my own editor, please let me know if you spot any mistakes.

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own any of these beautiful people, nor do I own the characters or SUPERNATURAL itself. All rights go to The CW, Eric Kripke, and everyone else involved._

* * *

 

The door squealed and creaked as Sam pushed it open, the high pitch sound only made worse by the echo emulating from the dark room. As he stepped through the boundary, his eyes squinting as they tried to adjust to the lack of lighting, at his right he noticed the outlines of what was surely a switch on the wall. He reached to flip it up.

A small buzzing sound hit his ears instantly—an electric current trying to power up a circuit—and as if on cue the light on the ceiling flickered to life. Sam still did not understand how and why the basement had power, but he was not about to complain.

His eyes panned the space of the small room. To his dismay, he found it fairly empty save for the few crates and boxes stacked in the corner, layered with dust. The room looked like it had not been visited in years.

A frown deepened around the corners his mouth and a familiar heaviness began to roll in his stomach. Him and his brother have fought tooth and nail to get this close to finding the angel, and the reality that Castiel may have never been here at all was a concerning, but more so depressing thought.

"Dammit." He ran a weary hand through his hair, making it only halfway through the strands when... he heard it.

" _Cas!_ "

Sam startled at, what was certainly, his brother's cry. Something so desperate to be heard coming from his brother had all the alarms going off in his head. He whirled around to focus on the open but empty doorway across the room, and it was only then that he realized the name that Dean had called.

He broke off into a sprint across the small basement, clearing the bodies with a couple ill-made hurdles and stumbling through doorway. His shoulder screamed at him in disturbance when it collided into the door-frame in his rush, but his adrenaline spike fortunately smothered his body's complaints for now.

"Dean...?" He called warily through the darkness, reaching in and padding a palm along the inside wall, searching for a light source. He was greeted with a dim, yellow glow from the ceiling, and unlike the other room, it was hardly a working bulb as far as lighting standards go. But it was just enough to cast eerie shadows on the two figures in the middle of the room, and glisten weakly off two thick chains.

He looked up to where the chains were bolted to the ceiling. The two lengths were spread at least ten feet from each other and made a wide 'V' as it traveled downward. A set of trembling arms made the bottom peak, with a dark patch of messy hair hanging between shoulder-blades. Cas...

 _Cas_ , who was hanging by chains from the freakin' _ceiling_.

Sam swallowed hard, and with a new found urgency he made the short distance to his brother. He was unable to withhold a grimace when their friends' condition was shone in a whole new light— _literally_. A mixture of relief and concern washed over him when Castiel raised two baby blue's in his general direction, carrying all the pain and misery and innocent hope of an abused animal. But as soon as he saw it, he was forced to watch them fade, and Castiel's eyelids began to flutter.

He raised a hand to his friend's neck and squeezed. Voice wavering as he urged the angel awake. "Hey. Hey, buddy. Hold on..."

He tore his eyes from Castiel as a soft _clink_ rang from Sam's left, and he could not have been happier to see his brother removing the cuff from their best friends right wrist. Some flesh peeled aside with the metal, and deep, raw grooves remained as Dean gingerly tore it away.

Cas hissed weakly through his teeth, body visibly tensing and then laxing as his body seemed to lose energy with the frivolous of movements.

"It's okay. We gotcha, Cas," Dean soothed, passing the lock pick to Sam in exchange for holding Castiel up, not wanting to put stress on the other wrist still attached to the chain.

As his older brother let out strings of comforting words, Sam worked on the final metal cuff, his throat bobbing when he unlocked the handcuff and found that this wrist fared no better, if not worse and completely mangled.

After removing it carefully, together the brother's shuffled to ease the angel safely to the ground. A weak groan came from Castiel with the movement. 

Sam knelt somewhat behind their friend, forced to be cautious of Castiel's... Castiel's _wings_.

He was forced to swallow back bile as he finally became aware of their presence. God, they were _visible_. And worse, they were maimed. Cruelly and painfully, judging by the way it looked and the permanent pain lines on Cas's face. How all of it was possible, he did not know, but it all made Sam's gut churn sickly.

"We've got you," he croaked softly, emphasizing Dean's original statement as he supported Castiel against his torso. Snaking an arm carefully beneath his right wing and under his arm to secure around Castiel's chest, Sam made a barrier between their friend and that _who-knows-what_  multicolored filth splattering the ground below.

Attentively, Dean crouched in front of them both, raising a hand to palm the angel's clammy cheek to supply some sort of comfort, as well as check the damage. Though it was a plethora of angry scabs and cuts, the worst of it was not the condition of Cas's face, but rather the slices, burns, and gaping, oozing hole in his gut.

Sam saw the pain in his brother's eyes as Dean stroked away the tear tracks and wetness from their friend's face. It was such an odd sort of weakness neither of them have ever seen come from the angel, whose demeanor was usually comparable to that of a plastic doll.

Each Winchester brother realized minutely, and all too suddenly, that Castiel was no longer moving. His head bowed and chin to his chest, his face free of creases as if he was asleep and no longer feeling a thing.

"No no no, hey— Cas!" Dean gave Castiel's face a subtle but firm slap in his own panic to try and rouse him. Blood became slick on his older brother's hand, where Dean must have jostled scabs. "Stay with us, buddy. Come on."

The slight crack Sam heard in Dean's voice made him wince.

Looking down at the motionless angel cradled in his arms, it was near impossible to tell if Castiel was breathing. He swallowed down the ever-rising dread and moved his hand flat over Castiel's left breast-bone. If the angel had died right then, he doubted Dean would ever forgive himself. And neither would Sam. Not when they were so close to getting their friend out of there.

It took a few agonizing seconds, but a gentle thudding soon came from beneath his palm.

Suddenly, he felt like he could breathe again. "Looks like he just passed out." He observed out-loud mostly for his brother, who had been worrying himself into the ground as he swapped between caressing, stroking, and tapping Castiel's face between shaky palms.

Apparently though, Sam's notion didn't subdue his older brother's panic as much as it did his own, because Dean tore his eyes from their injured friend and pinned him with a glare.

"Angels don't _pass out_ , Sam," Dean bit back with frustration. "They're _angels_."

Despite the disturbance in his voice, the underlining fear and complete helplessness in his big brothers eyes made the situation all the worse for Sam.

"Well," Sam muttered, "I guess in this case, they do..."

He glanced back down to his hand resting over Castiel's heart. It was drumming rather fast for someone who was unconscious, and Sam didn't know whether he should be concerned or not. But, the fact that Jimmy Novak's heart continued to pump was all Sam could ask for right now. They would get Castiel through this as long as it kept beating.

The rest, him and Dean could handle.

"Let's get him out of here." Making the quick decision that they need to be at least a hundred miles away from this place by the time Castiel woke up—not to mention before the demon returned with a new vessel and back-up—he shifted his hold on the angel, trying to maneuver around Castiel's wings and get in a better position to carry him. 

Dean remained focused on their friend for a long beat, before placing a hand on Castiel's chest, intervening. "I'll take him."

Sam paused and, even through the dim lighting, glanced up to find Dean's green eyes boring into his. "You sure?"

Wordlessly, he watched Dean shuffle closer, felt him nudge Sam's arm out of the way to slip beneath Castiel's shoulders with one of his own. Dean's other hand simultaneously dug through his pocket, pulling out a set of jingling keys. "Go pull up the car. I got him."

He passed them to Sam, who nodded and took them without complaint.

"Okay. Just... Careful up the stairs," Sam said, voicing his concern. "They are pretty steep."

The nod was stiff, Dean's emotions had vanished without a trace; if it wasn't for the impatient ticking of his jaw, no one would've known it had been there. It was metaphorical mask, a trait that had been embedded into Dean from a young age by John Winchester himself.

_Stow the crap for a later date, get shit done now.  
_

While it was a good facet to have in situations like these, Sam still had major disagreements on how their father had raised them, moreover how he had raised _Dean_. A child shouldn't of had to _stow his crap_ , because he shouldn't of _had any_ in the first place.

Dean waved him off without so much as a glance. "I'll be fine. Go."

And Sam did not bother to say otherwise. "I'll hurry," he assured his brother and their unconscious friend. However, on both accounts, awake or non, the notion had fallen on deaf ears.

Sam breathed with determination despite this and climbed to his feet. One of the handcuffs rebounded lightly off the back of his head before he could reach his full height, and he ducked around it as to not have a repeat incident. However, he took fate as it came to him and sparred a glance to the sigil carved into the metal of the cuffs, imprinting the design on his brain for future research before ultimately vacating through the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes indeed, comments /do/ feed the writer's soul!


End file.
